“You found a cottage?” Ivar asked.
“Nay,” Lars replied with a head shake. “We found an army.”
“An army?” Ivar struggled to put his thoughts in order. “How many?” Could it be Count Ebles as Emma had predicted? Was he coming to claim her? Had he been mistaken in not taking the threat seriously?
“Mayhap five hundred men and two hundred horses,” Lars replied.
Damn. He hadn’t expected so many “Who commands them?” he asked.
“That’s the strange thing,” Emma’s servant scratched his chin. “They have the look of a Norse army, yet they fly the pennant of Poitou.”
Ivar’s mind raced. “My brother must be made aware of this. You will ride to Quimper now and warn him,” Ivar commanded Lars. “Tell Valdrik all that you know. He must be prepared. Anders,” he turned to his second man. “Go to Vannes and inform Bjorn he must marshal reinforcements. Go! Now!”
Finally dressed, Emma joined the men, eyeing Ivar with a frown of concern. “What has happened?”
“It seems your wish has been granted,” Ivar said dryly. “Your betrothed comes to rescue you.”
Her gaze widened. “What do you intend to do?”
“I will do as I said I would from the beginning,” he replied blandly. “I will send your servant to Count Ebles with your betrothal ring and this message—If Ebles still wishes to take you to wife, he will pay a suitable bride price.”
“Bride price?” she snorted. “You mean ransom.”
He shrugged. “Call it what you will.”
“How much?” she asked.
He stepped back and eyed Emma appraisingly. Ivar knew at that moment that he couldn’t let her go. He would force the count to fight for her. “I think such a specimen of womanhood should be worth her weight in gold.”
Emma gasped. “’Tis a king’s ransom! He will never pay it!”
“If he will not pay, he must fight,” Ivar replied.
“And if he doesn’t? Will you keep me prisoner for the rest of my life?”
“Come,” he urged, diverting her from further questions that he wasn’t prepared to answer. “We must return at once to Quimper. My brother needs me.”
“But I can’t ride,” she said. “How can you expect me to get back on a horse so soon?”
She had a point. Only hours ago, she was at death’s door. He could hardly expect her to keep up a hardened warrior’s pace. At the same time, speed was essential with an army only hours behind them. “Damnit! There is no time to waste. We will lead your horse and you will ride with me!”
Ivar quickly repacked his saddle bags with the remaining provisions, threw his fur mantle around her, and put her on the back of his horse. Within minutes, they were galloping toward Quimper.
Knowing Count Ebles had assembled an army to fight the Norsemen, Emma had feigned more weakness than she actually felt. If he had indeed raised a force to come to her aid, she was obligated to honor her father’s alliance with him. Although Ivar had spoken of secret pacts that could very well be true, the fact remained that he’d taken control of her home. Her conscience wouldn’t allow her to remain with him. Though her feelings had undeniably softened toward him, she couldn’t allow that to affect her judgment. She wished it could have been different, but resolved to do what was best for Brittany and rid the land of these foreign invaders.
She hadn’t counted on being thrown on the back of Ivar’s horse but consoled herself that the added burden on the beast’s back would still serve her purpose. If she could somehow manage to break away, she doubted Ivar would pursue. He would not waste valuable time in chasing her again. With his brother barely recovered from his wounds, and an enemy soon approaching, Ivar would be needed to take command.
All she needed now was an opportunity to make her escape. She could feel the impatience emanating from every muscle in his body, but even he would have to rest eventually. He ignored her first request for a respite. The second time she pleaded for a moment to relieve herself.
He answered her request with a grumble but soon pulled to a halt by a stream. Sliding down from the saddle, Emma made her way to the shelter of a thicket, watching from the corner of her eye as he also dismounted to allow the horses a drink. Leaving them to crop a patch of grass, he walked a few paces and turned his back to her. By his movements, he seemed also to be answering nature’s call.
She had her chance and made her move. Creeping toward her grazing horse, she grabbed the bridle reins and leaped into the saddle, but before she could even turn the animal southward, an iron grip encircled her leg. Next came the explosive force of her body hitting the ground. As she lay gasping for air, Emma once more found herself trapped beneath Ivar’s bigger, stronger body.
His eyes blazed and the veins stood out in his neck as he pinned her to the ground. “What in the Hel are you doing?” he growled.
“What do you think I’m doing?” she gasped back.
“It this how it is going to be between us?” he demanded, looking like he wanted to throttle her. “I can’t even turn my back to take a piss?”
She held his gaze for a long, painful heartbeat. “Nothing has changed, Ivar,” she whispered softly but resolutely. “I will not give up my home to you or to anyone else.”
Ivar rose and strode to her horse who stood several paces away with its ears twitching nervously. Taking up the bridle reins, he returned to Emma. “You will stay in Poitou if you know what’s good for you.”
“And if I don’t” she challenged.
“If you fight me, make no mistake, Emma, I will treat you as a foe.” His menacing demeanor was a testament to his words and sent a shiver of foreboding down her spine. He thrust the reins into her hands. “Go and be damned.”
Emma mounted the horse with burning eyes and trembling hands. He’d freed her at last, so why did her heart feel as if it would burst in her chest? Because mixed with his rage, she’d felt his anguish. Her breach of trust had hurt him deeply.
She’d tried to convince herself that she was no more to him than a pawn to be traded, that she was nothing beyond a ransom to enrich his pockets, but if that were so, he would never have let her go. He would have held her for the payment he’d demanded.
And the ransom itself was ludicrous. She wondered why he had demanded such a sum. He had to know that Count Ebles would never have paid it. Had Ivar known that all along? Her throat tightened at the realization that only hours ago they had nearly become lovers but would soon be facing one another again as adversaries.
Ivar turned his back to her, mounted his own horse, and plied his heels, refusing to look back. In his entire life, no man had ever made a fool of him and lived to tell the tale, but this woman had repeatedly made a complete ass of him. And like a dog returning to its vomit, he continued to repeat his folly. She’d betrayed his faith at every opportunity. If given the chance would she do it again? Her answer implied she would. No more. His pride demanded an end to his self-abasing behavior.
He’d treated her fairly. He’d even saved her life and she’d rejected him! To Hel with Lady Emma of Quimper! To Hel with Brittany!
It was time to think of his future. He was obligated to return to Quimper to fight for his brother’s claim, but he had no intention of staying to reap the promised reward. Although he loved his brothers, they each had their own destiny. Valdrik had chosen his path, but Ivar had to forge his own. He was mistaken in thinking he could settle down in this land of his ancestors. There was nothing here to ease his restlessness. Lands and riches would not fill the empty spaces in his soul. A noble title would never change who he really was. Battle alone obliviated the past and gave him a sense of purpose.
He would stay long enough for Valdrik to recover from his wounds, but once his brother was secure in Brittany, Ivar would put his sword up for hire. He’d fight for whoever paid him—until he eventually died in battle. A glorious death would erase the taint of his birth. Only then would he be remembered, not as the bastard of a bed slave, but as I
var the Red, a great and fierce Viking warrior.
Chapter Twelve
It was nearing dusk when Emma arrived at Count Ebles’ encampment. An outrider had met her on the road just north of the camp. At first, he’d treated her with suspicion, but once she’d identified herself at the count’s betrothed, he’d extended her every courtesy. He’d even escorted her directly to the count’s quarters, a lavish pavilion where she found him in counsel with several other men.
Dropping her hood, Emma advanced a step and took in his lavish surroundings—vibrant silk rugs and bed hangings that could only have come from Constantinople. This was not a man accustomed to hardship.
The Count approached her with a look of disbelief as the soldier announced her. “Lady Emma of Quimper? How can it be? I thought you dead.” He laid his hand over his breast in a disingenuous gesture. “You can only imagine my distress.”
“Yes. It does require some imagination,” she replied dryly. If she’d thought he was in any great hurry to rescue her, she was sadly mistaken. “My father sent a rider over a sennight ago seeking your aid.”
“You think I can pull an army out of my arse?” he demanded.
“My father understood that you keep a force of mercenaries.”
His beady gaze narrowed. “We will speak of these matters in private. At the moment, I am entertaining company.”
He gestured to his guests who were reclining at a table laden as if for a feast. Among them, she was confused to see two warriors with scarred faces, untamed hair and long braided beards, reminding her all too clearly of her very first impression of Ivar. Were these also Norsemen? What could this mean?
Emma then noticed a woman she didn’t recognize—one who eyed her with open hostility. She returned her gaze with uncertainty. Who was this? Surely no noblewoman would entertain in such an indecent mode of dress. Her head was uncovered and her hair unbound, flowing in wanton waves over her shoulders, and her tunic was the thinnest silk Emma had ever seen. She also seemed far too intimate with the men, especially toward the count.
Taking up his chalice, she eyed Emma with a smile and took a drink.
Emma recognized the message in the gesture. Who was this Jezebel drinking from Ebles’ chalice and eating from his plate?
The count’s gaze darted back and forth between them as Emma waited for an introduction. When none appeared forthcoming, she stepped forward with her chin raised. “I am Lady Emma, daughter of Count Gourmaëlon and Count Ebles’ betrothed.”
The woman’s gaze widened. She then broke into a deep-throated chuckle. “I find that most interesting, indeed, considering I am Lady Ebles of Poitou, the count’s new wife.”
Emma’s jaw dropped. “His wife?”
“Aye, his wife. We are even now celebrating our wedding feast.” She inclined her head with a smug smile to a vacant cushion. “Pray join us, Lady Emma of Quimper.”
Shaking with rage, Emma spun to Count Ebles. “What is this treachery? You and my father signed an agreement.”
“I-I got word of your father’s death,” he sputtered flush-faced. “And naturally assumed the worst.”
“That makes no sense,” she accused. “I sent a messenger that we were under siege. How could I have done so if I were dead?”
“Death is not always the worst fate.” He shrugged. “Moreover, your despoilment nullified our contract and any obligation I had to you.”
“M-my despoilment?” Emma repeated in confusion.
“You were taken by Vikings and lived. I am no fool, Lady Emma. There can be only one reason why they didn’t kill you.” He nodded to his companions who were eyeing Emma like hungry hounds waiting for the master’s scraps.
“You think I…” Emma was momentarily speechless. “But my captor sent a ransom demand with my betrothal ring.”
“Ransom?” he replied blankly. “I received no such notice, but have no fear, my dear. If you seek protection, there is yet room in the bridal chamber.” He turned to his wife. “What say you, Gisela?”
Lady Ebles raised her chalice and took a sip. Then, smiling at the Norsemen, she poured the rest of the wine over her breasts with a chortle joined by the raucous laughter of the Norsemen. “The more, the merrier, my lord.”
Emma’s shock turned to outrage. “You vile little dwarf!” Before she could think twice, she struck Ebles hard across the face.
“Bitch! This is how you would return my hospitality? Guards!” he called out. “Take away this she-devil at once.”
Riding alone gave Ivar too damned much time to think. And it didn’t take much thinking for him to realize, he’d made a huge mistake. Once more, he’d reacted purely from the gut rather than using his head. His brother would be furious when he learned he’d let Emma go. And rightfully so. Much like Gisela, Emma posed a threat to Valdrik’s claim. But Emma was far more dangerous than Gisela, who sought only her own gain. Emma would inspire others to take up arms, and releasing her to Ebles, essentially gave her the army she needed. It was a huge tactical blunder.
He couldn’t let his own bruised pride become his brother’s downfall. She was not so far ahead that he couldn’t still catch her. He had no choice. He must hunt her down, return her to Quimper, and let Valdrik deal with her however he willed. With a sigh of resignation, he halted his horse and turned back toward Poitou.
Emma’s exit from Count Ebles’ tent was far less dignified than her entrance. Bound up like a fowl trussed for roasting, she was carried to a smaller tent in the encampment where they held another prisoner—her own servant, Budic.
“Milady!” he exclaimed. “How do you come to be here?”
“’Tis a long story that I can hardly comprehend myself, Budic. Perhaps you could offer some enlightenment, starting with why they imprisoned you?”
“That wh …” he paused with a flush… “er … woman… accused me of spying.”
“The woman? You mean Lady Ebles?”
“Aye, milady.” He scowled. “’Twas she who took the ring.”
“Why would she do such a thing?” But understanding came quickly. The woman had perceived Emma as a threat. She never gave Ebles the ring or the message. She’d wanted Ebles to believe Emma dead, or at least defiled by Vikings.
“Who is she, Budic? And why are their Norsemen in this camp?”
“I don’t know who she is, but the Norsemen be a bad lot. They’re a band of Danes come up from the south. They be mercenaries, milady. They don’t care who they fight. They sell their allegiance to the highest bidder,” he spat. “There be no worse breed of man on the earth.”
“Ebles hired Vikings to fight Vikings? I suppose there is some logic in the madness,” Emma remarked. “But why would he choose to fight now? Why not while my father lived? Or when I sent for help?”
“I know not, milady.”
Try as she might, Emma couldn’t make sense of it. How could it be that the man who should have been her salvation had turned out to be far more perfidious than the one she’d regarded as her foe? The man her father had pledged her to, the one who should have been her protector and savior, was a faithless traitor and liar, while the one she’d believed a godless savage, had shown her nothing but patience and mercy.
She’d been so misguided and naïve in so many ways. The Viking who’d held her captive had at least treated her with a modicum of respect. She’d despised Ivar for imprisoning her in her own comfortable rooms, but now she sat on the damp ground in Count Ebles’ camp, bound hand and foot. The count was everything she’d dreaded and more—a truly loathsome creature.
The bindings of coarse hemp ate into the flesh of her wrists as Emma struggled against her bonds. Was there no way out of here? She had little hope of escape, but she still couldn’t regret striking Ebles. She did, however, regret her parting with Ivar. Deeply.
She wondered how differently Ivar might have dealt with her if she’d swallowed her pride and surrendered to his authority? Would he have kept her as his concubine? Only days ago, she would have rejected the idea
outright, but now that she’d experienced his passion, she questioned whether it would be such a terrible thing to be under his protection… to be his lover.
Ivar crouched in a shelter of brush on the edge of the encampment watching for any sign of Emma. The army was a motley mixture of Franks and Danes. Was this a confederation with the Loire Vikings? They were well known for forging purely mercenary alliances. Many killed for gold but others for the pure joy of it. He understood them all too well. The same darkness had called to him most of his life and beckoned to him still. Only Valdrik had saved him from selling his sword as well as his soul.
A disturbance caught his eye from the pavilion that could only be the count’s quarters—two men carrying a bound and struggling prisoner. Emma! His gaze tracked their position as they moved toward the center of the camp where they shoved her inside a tent. There were only two guards posted to watch her, but as a lone man against seven hundred, he could not afford a misstep. He would wait for darkness to fall.
Given the Norse contingent, infiltrating the camp would not be too difficult. His dilemma was how to get her out of the camp unnoticed. Success depended on her cooperation. Would she trust him? More importantly, could he trust her?
Two Norsemen approached the tent. The guards at first looked uneasy. An exchange of words followed and then muffled laughter. Ivar’s pulse quickened. The larger of the two Vikings produced a coin purse from his tunic and handed it to the first guard—a bribe. Ivar’s hand closed around his sword hilt as the second Viking took up the watch position abandoned by the guards who disappeared into the camp. As the second Viking ducked into the tent, his pulse roared to life.
Lost in her thoughts, Emma sat in almost total darkness listening to Budic softly snoring. How could he sleep? Her own nerves were on edge. What would tomorrow bring? Would Ebles kill her for humiliating him? She feared he might, but even death would be far better than spending her life bound to him. Whatever her fate, she vowed to face it with dignity.
The Wolves of Brittany Collection: A Romance Bundle Books 1-3 Page 20
